Chapter 3: The Blood in Queens
New York never slept—it just traded nightmares.
By the third day of training, Styles already had more whispers chasing him than his instructors wanted to deal with. Two missions, two freak accidents, and two criminals mysteriously "knocked out cold" while every other rookie struggled to even keep their aim straight.
To the rest of the cadets, he was either a joke or a miracle. To Styles, it was just another day with coffee and cigarettes.
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Scene 1: Gossip and Games
The cafeteria buzzed with gossip again.
"He never fires his gun."
"Guy's hiding something."
"Or maybe he's just cursed."
Styles ignored it, lounging at a corner table with his hood half up. His Level marker still glowed faintly at 5, the perfect camouflage. Nobody suspected the truth—he should've been Level 2 at best, but the infection was feeding him EXP like steroids.
A woman in her late twenties slid into the seat across from him. She wasn't a rookie. She was a nurse from the academy hospital wing, hair tied in a neat bun, wedding ring flashing under the fluorescent lights.
She leaned forward, whispering, "You're Styles, right?"
He smirked. "Depends who's asking. Husband or wife?"
She flushed, biting her lip. "You've got a reputation. Funny, dangerous, doesn't listen to rules. Women like that."
"Women," Styles said, leaning closer, "like being seen." His hand slid across the table, brushing her fingers. She didn't pull away.
By the time breakfast was over, he had her number. By the time the afternoon rolled around, she was pinned against the wall of a hospital storage room, stifling her moans with his hand.
Styles lit a cigarette afterward, grinning at the ceiling. "Married women always want it the dirtiest."
She slapped his chest lightly. "Shut up."
Another secret. Another conquest. Nobody would ever know.
⸻
Scene 2: Mission Briefing
The call came fast. Dispatch alarms blared through the halls.
Mission Code: 0078.
Threat: Blood Fang Gang, supernatural-affiliated.
Location: Queens warehouses.
Reward: 5,000 EXP.
Marisol cursed under her breath. "Gangs already? We're rookies!"
The instructor sneered at her. "Welcome to the real job. The Blood Fang Gang isn't just human. They recruit low-level demons and hybrids. Don't fall behind."
Styles flicked his lighter, cigarette glowing. "Sounds fun. Do they validate parking?"
Marisol glared. "This isn't a joke."
"It's always a joke," Styles said, exhaling smoke. "That's what makes it funny."
⸻
Scene 3: The Warehouse
The Queens waterfront stank of salt, rust, and blood. The warehouse loomed like a tomb, windows blacked out, faint red light seeping through the cracks.
The unit breached the side door, weapons raised. Inside, graffiti covered the walls—fangs dripping blood, demonic runes scrawled in glowing ink.
Shapes moved in the shadows. Men. Not quite men.
One stepped forward, eyes burning red, fangs gleaming under the flickering light. His Level marker hovered above him: Level 15.
Styles whistled low. "Guess the welcome party's hungry."
The gang roared and charged.
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Scene 4: The Fight
Gunfire erupted. Rookies screamed orders they didn't understand. The Blood Fang hybrids moved fast, claws slicing through the air.
Marisol barely ducked under a swipe, firing a shot that ricocheted harmlessly. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Styles was already gone. His speed carried him through the chaos like smoke. Every claw strike missed him by inches. To the rookies, it looked like luck. To him, it was control. His infection sharpened his reflexes, his agility turning him into a blur.
One hybrid lunged at him. Styles stepped inside the strike and drove his fist into its chest.
CRACK.
The creature's body bent unnaturally before slamming into a crate. Another lunged. Styles spun, low kick snapping its leg in half before his elbow crashed into its jaw.
He moved through them barehanded, silent, brutal, precise. And when the dust settled, five hybrids lay unconscious, blood dripping from their mouths.
The rookies stared in shock.
"What the hell…"
"They just—fell over!"
"No way that's luck twice in a row!"
Styles lit another cigarette, smoke curling around his grin. "Guess they skipped leg day."
Scene 5: The EXP
The gang members dissolved into smoke, leaving the warehouse reeking of iron.
Above the rookies' heads:
+5,000 EXP.
Groans of relief followed. Most gained four, maybe five levels.
But in Styles' hidden vision:
+10,000 EXP.
Level Up → 15.
He exhaled smoke slowly, hiding the grin tugging at his lips. Fifteen already. At this pace, I'll hit Prestige before they even pass firearms class.
⸻
Scene 6: Suspicion
Back at the academy, the tension boiled.
"That's three missions."
"Three times, the enemy just… drops."
"No way he's just lucky."
Styles ignored the rumors, feet propped on the cafeteria table, sipping coffee while a model from the communications division laughed too loud at his jokes. She had a boyfriend—another rookie—but her hand was already brushing his under the table.
Marisol stormed over, slamming her tray down. "You think nobody notices? You're hiding something. I don't know what, but I'll find out."
Styles leaned back, blowing smoke into her face. "Careful. If you keep staring at me like that, people are gonna think you like me."
She stormed off, red-faced. The model giggled.
Styles smirked. Suspicion's just foreplay with a different name.
⸻
Scene 7: Nightfall
That night, back at the shelter, Styles peeled his hoodie off. His body pulsed with energy, muscles sharper, movements cleaner. His reflection in the cracked mirror showed faint black veins crawling under his skin before fading.
He clenched his fist. The bunk frame bent again, this time with no effort.
Stronger. Faster. Every fight, every encounter, I get better at hiding it. And they'll never catch me. They'll just call it luck.
His badge glowed faintly in the dark: Level 15.
He laughed quietly to himself, the city's roar filling the night outside.
"Prestige is waiting. Women are waiting. Fights are waiting. This whole damn city's mine."
He lay back, smoke curling above him, grin never fading. Tomorrow would bring another mission. Another fight. Another secret.
And Styles would own it all.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]